


To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

by BookGirlWithLove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 05:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19350262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlWithLove/pseuds/BookGirlWithLove
Summary: Six months.  Six months since John moved back into Baker Street with Rosie and the nightmares show no signs of ebbing. There are recurrent images of Mary bleeding out in the aquarium, images of Rosie crying in an empty room for her mother, and as always, images of Sherlock’s body lying crooked and bloody on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s.There are new nightmares, too. But not John’s.





	To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta, obviouslySherlock, for her amazing edits. She put my rambling words in order and is a comma queen! Thank you, my friend. 
> 
> Amazing thanks also go to Harriet_Watson_1895_88 for her title help and Brit pick and making sure this New Jersey girl had it right!

Six months. Six months since John moved back into Baker Street with Rosie and the nightmares show no signs of ebbing. There are recurrent images of Mary bleeding out in the aquarium, images of Rosie crying in an empty room for her mother, and as always, images of Sherlock’s body lying crooked and bloody on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s. 

There are new nightmares, too. But not John’s. Sherlock’s own cries and whimpers can be heard through the floor most nights and John feels powerless to comfort his best friend. Sherlock has only ever given John the basic facts about his time … away, and John doesn’t feel he has the right to pry. Sherlock has never made John talk about his shoulder injury and he pays Sherlock the same respect. He can give him that. 

The lack of sleep (even measured on a Sherlock-scale) is starting to show on the two men. And it’s starting to affect Rosie, who is woken up by her father’s screaming all too often. So John takes to sleeping on the couch once Rosie is down for the night. Sherlock notices immediately, of course, but never comments as John resets the couch each morning.

Finally, one Friday morning, they break. Sherlock is exhausted, John is sore, and Rosie (as the only tenant of 221B getting any REM sleep) is a tireless ball of energy. 

“I think we need to take Molly up on her offer to keep Rosie for a weekend,” John says, half yawning as he spoons pureed pears into his daughter’s mouth. “I feel like I could conk out right now. I swear all I need is one weekend to catch up.” He doesn’t mention that the nightmares don’t come during the day. Naps have always been better and have allowed him to compensate for the restless nights in the past. Of course, that was before he had a child to father during the daylight hours.

“Already called her,” Sherlock says as takes a sip of his coffee with his eyes closed. “She’ll be here in an hour.” If only he had his eyes open, he’d have seen John turn his head and look at him as if he were the sun - eyes bright, mouth open with the beginnings of a smile forming as he quirked up one side of his lips. “Oh, I could kiss you. I’ll go pack her bag.” He kisses Rosie on the head instead and slides the pears across the table to Sherlock who slowly picks up the spoon and continues to feed Rosie without missing a beat, staring with eyes wide open at John’s back as he leaves the room. _Kiss me? Stop it, John doesn’t know what he said._

Mortified, John walks upstairs. John knows exactly what he said. 

\-----

Molly arrives before the hour is through and is delighted to have her goddaughter for the weekend, rambling on to Rosie about their plans as she carries the baby down the stairs and out the front door. Rosie’s giggles can be heard through the open windows as they get into the taxi and drive away.

John and Sherlock look at each other across the room. “Good night,” they say almost in unison with a nod as they retreat to their respective bedrooms, John bounding up the stairs and Sherlock slowly walking down the hallway. _He ‘could kiss’ me._

\-----

There are 57 cracks in John’s ceiling. John knows this because he’s counted them 19 times so far in the last hour. Because now that he can sleep, why would his body let him? _‘I could kiss you.’_ Why, why, why did he say that? He’s kept his feelings for Sherlock hidden for years. He needs to clear his mind and then sleep will come.

He throws on his robe and quietly walks downstairs so as to not to disturb Sherlock (aiming to edit a few blog entries he feels are not quite ready to post) but is surprised to find him at the kitchen table peering into his microscope with bunches of dead crickets on paper plates all around him. His hair is a mess, like he had been dragging his fingers through the curls. John has always loved how soft and adorable Sherlock looks with his hair sticking out in all directions.

Without looking up, Sherlock mumbles, “They came to me already dead.”

John tilts his head and squints his eyes. “Do I smell acetone?” 

“Nail polish remover, John.”

“Ah,” John purses his lips and looks around the room. Anything to not be caught staring. He really needed sleep. “Tea?”

Sherlock squinted into the lens and spoke in the same slow, distracted manner, “Normally I’d say yes, but caffeine seems contrary to our goal for this afternoon.”

“Mmmm, I suppose. Can’t sleep either?”

“Obviously,” he sighs and pushes away from the microscope staring at the plates on the table. He blinks and rubs his eyes with his thumb and index finger, “nor can I concentrate.” _What else would make you want to kiss me?_

“Let’s sit and watch telly for a bit - find something really boring.” John walks towards the couch, grabs the remote, and plops down in a corner as he flips through the channels. “C’mon, we just need to relax.” Sherlock sits at the kitchen table and stares at John for a moment before nodding, getting up, and shuffling over. He lays his head on the opposite end, wraps his dressing gown around his pulled up knees, and yawns. 

John slouches, Sherlock stretches, and slowly they drift off to the sounds of a man attaching flutes to a pigeon while John rests his hand on Sherlock’s ankle.

\-----

Six hours. Six hours of uninterrupted sleep. There were no nightmares - no dreams at all actually, and John feels better than he has in a long time. So good in fact, he figures he might close his eyes and try for another hour - which is when he realizes he is no longer sitting, but curled up halfway down the couch with his head resting on Sherlock’s hip. _Shit! Must have fallen over at some point._ He starts to push himself back up when he feels a hand on his shoulder and a sleepy, “Don’t go. Warm,” coming from a groggy Sherlock, who is still on his side with his eyes closed, and who then falls right back into his slumber. John can’t deny him, so he closes his eyes and is sleeping again moments later.

\-----

They decide to eat dinner out (a rare occurrence these days while Rosie is in her “look what I can throw” phase) and Sherlock is relieved there is no awkwardness from John despite their napping arrangements. When they woke up earlier, John simply stretched his arms over his head (which made his skin peek out a bit - _do you even realize what you’re doing to me, John_ ) and said with a big smile on his face, “Dinner?” Now, they’re chatting about their latest case and laughing as Sherlock nicks prawns off John’s plate. It feels good to be well rested and they decide to walk home.

Their long nap backfires a bit when it gets close to midnight and neither man is tired. They lapse into a comfortable silence as Sherlock migrates back to his crickets and John works on his blog. It’s close to 1:30am when John rises to his feet, “I’m going up. I’d say you should go to bed, but I know who I’m talking to.” Sherlock smiles softly without looking away from the lens and simply says, “Good night, John.”

\-----

Bolting up, John realizes it’s not his or Rosie’s cries he hears, but Sherlock’s. Loud screams - then silence. He notices it’s still pitch black outside as he sits up in his bed. He waits to see if Sherlock has fallen back to sleep when he hears the noises again, and while they don’t seem to be getting louder, they also don’t seem to be stopping. It’s a steady stream of whimpers. Whether it’s the fact that they shared a nap today or because Rosie’s not there, he doesn’t know, but John finally gathers the courage for the first time to go downstairs and open Sherlock’s bedroom door. 

John finds his friend sitting up in bed with his elbows resting on his bent knees and a dazed look on his face as if he’s not sure where he is. “John? JOHN!” seems to be the only word coming out of his mouth as he looks around the room, tears streaming down his face. “I’m right here, Sherlock, it’s OK.” He waits by the door to not startle Sherlock anymore than he already is. “Breathe slowly. Can I come near you?” Sherlock doesn’t answer but closes his eyes and tries to control his sobs. Not wanting to embarrass his friend John offers, “Would you rather I leave?” Pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes, Sherlock quickly shakes his head from side to side. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asks. Another head shake is Sherlock’s reply - still not looking up, still no words. John looks around, bites his bottom lip and takes a leap. “Would you like me to stay?” After a beat, he sees Sherlock barely nod his head. 

Sherlock pulls back the blankets, slides down, and scoots over to the right side of the bed facing the wall. John Watson, who would do absolutely anything for Sherlock, walks to the left side of the bed and tucks in with his best friend.

\-----

Opening his eyes, Sherlock knows immediately that John is lying behind him. He’s always aware of John’s proximity to himself and not even sleep could change that.

John is as close to Sherlock as he can be without touching. He’s so close Sherlock can feel his breath on the back of his neck. He realizes he can also hear small sounds coming from John, which must be what woke him. It’s not quite dawn, too early to get up - not that Sherlock would, even if it was full daylight.

Sherlock hears John’s breath changing and knows he’s awake, but not yet aware that Sherlock is as well. “I’m up,” Sherlock whispers. “It’s still early, go back to sleep.”

They lay there breathing for a bit, neither quite settled enough to drop back off. John opens his mouth several times and takes a breath, but stops himself before he can speak. Finally in a quiet voice he stutters, “Would it be …? Can I …?” Sherlock reaches back, grabs John’s hand and pulls it over his own body.

“How did you know?” John asks taken aback, gripping Sherlock’s hand.

“You’re a tactile person in bed, John,” Sherlock replies. “If you’re lying next to someone, you want to hold them. It’s instinctual for you. It calms you.”

“Thank you.” John closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths and pulls Sherlock a little closer burrowing his face into Sherlock’s neck. Warm, they both finally drift back to sleep.

There are no nightmares at all. 

\-----

They must have shifted during the night because John wakes up looking at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is a wreck. His curls are plastered with sweat, there are tear tracks on his cheeks, and he needs to brush his teeth. And John can’t remember ever waking up to such a beautiful sight. He comes to the realization that he loves this man more than anything, and it takes his breath away. 

John’s not startled by this at all. It feels like the last piece of his life has finally slotted into place. Of course he loves Sherlock - he always has. From that first night, the moment they looked at each other in the hallway, giggling by the stairs of 221B, John was in love.

Sherlock inhales, stretches his legs down, and opens his eyes. He shivers. Not breaking eye contact, John takes the edges of the blanket and pulls it up over their shoulders. Sherlock sinks his head into the pillow a little more and squints his eyes at John, definitely deducing him. John lets him. Sherlock inhales sharply and John feels those eyes look into his soul. The space between them closes. John softly smiles. He’s ready. They’re ready. 

John’s phone rings. They both softly laugh. “It’s Molly,” Sherlock says and rolls out of bed. _We’re almost there_ , he thinks and knows there’s no rush.

John sits up, answers the phone and listens to his daughter laugh with Molly encouraging her in the background. He tells Molly tomorrow afternoon would be great to drop Rosie back, thanks her, and hangs up. He hears Sherlock fill the kettle and take out the pans for breakfast. _I want this forever._ He loses his breath.

They shuffle through their day together quietly, not wanting to break the spell. Neither brings up what almost happened in the bed but there’s a comfort to their movements. They navigate towards each other with each step, each small touch, each glance and smile, and when they nap on the couch again later that afternoon, Sherlock’s head is in John’s lap.

They decide to order dinner in, neither wanting to leave the sitting room and the small cocoon that they’ve built around them. Through their quiet conversation while eating, neither broaches the subject of what they know they feel and when they’re ready for bed they don’t quite know what to do.

_Do I ask him to come in with me?_

_Do I ask if he wants company again?_

_I want him with me._

_I want to be with him._

Sherlock is the brave one who solves the question by opening his bedroom door, stepping to the side and shyly looking at John. John looks down and breaks into a grin, “Yeah, let me just run up and change.” Sherlock can hear John quickly walk up the steps and exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good. Yes, good,” he mumbles to himself and starts to undress and put on his pajamas.

Walking back down the stairs, John shakes out his hands and takes a few deep breaths. He pauses nervously at Sherlock’s door, the butterflies out of control. _Man up, Watson!_ With a final nod, he walks into the room. 

Sherlock is sitting stiffly in the bed, trying to look nonchalant as he scrolls through his email, but utterly failing. John puts him out of his misery by walking up to the bed and crawling right in without fuss. Pulling up the blanket he asks, “Can I turn this lamp off?”

“Yes. I’m almost done.” Sherlock pretends to read an important email. _This was much easier when we were both half asleep._ He swallows, glances at John who is already lying down on his back, then leans over and turns off the lamp on his side before he finally lies down. The two men are suddenly both very unsure.

_Does he not want me here?_

_Does he want to leave?_

_Do I reach for him?_

_Should I turn to face him?_

Neither able to make a decision, they both end up falling asleep, lying on their backs, two feet away from each other.

\-----

_This is becoming a habit._ Sherlock squints his eyes at Sunday morning’s bright light and looks up at John’s face. The two of them are centimeters apart. Sherlock needs to stretch his legs and shifts a bit which wakes John up. “Don’t go,” Sherlock hears John’s whisper. “Unless you want to, I mean,” John continues. “But if you want to stay, I want you to stay.” 

Sherlock looks into John’s eyes. “I want to stay.”

John smiles and slowly winds his arms around Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock hesitantly does the same and tucks his head under John’s chin. John pulls him in just a little bit closer. One leg tangles with another, until they can’t tell whose are whose. They hold each other tightly. 

“I could kiss you.” John says. It’s an echo of his words on Friday and Sherlock’s breath catches as his eyes get glassy and he tucks further into John’s neck, smelling all that is _John._

“I wish you would.” Sherlock whispers. 

John pulls Sherlock up until their faces are aligned. They look into each other’s eyes and there’s no hesitation. They meet in the middle. 

John starts off just lightly touching his lips to Sherlock’s and their noses brush against one another. He puts a little more pressure into it and Sherlock wraps his hand around the back of John’s neck. They begin to move their lips, both wanting to satisfy their need for more. John strokes Sherlock’s cheek as he opens his mouth the slightest bit to let just the tip of his tongue touch Sherlock’s lower lip, which drives Sherlock absolutely insane. John sinks his fingers into Sherlock’s curls and tilts his head as Sherlock opens his mouth to let John in. When their tongues finally touch their legs tighten around each other and they moan with want, panting heavily whenever they get the chance to take a breath. They kiss with the intensity of years of longing and neither wants to ever stop.

After minutes, maybe hours, days - John pulls away and looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “I love you. I absolutely, completely adore you and I don’t want to keep myself from telling you that ever again.” 

Sherlock is speechless. But then he says exactly what’s on his mind. “I don’t want you to sleep upstairs from this point on.”

John laughs, “Yeah, I can agree to that.” Smiling, he brings their mouths back together and they kiss as they giggle and try to comprehend how much their lives have changed in just two days. Sherlock wraps his entire body around John’s and whispers into his ear, “I love you, John. Always.” John holds Sherlock tightly and promises himself he’ll never let go.

There are still nightmares, but they are few and far between. Now, however, Sherlock and John are always with each other, side by side - and they are never again dealt with alone.


End file.
